


Cuckoo's Egg

by Alpherae



Series: Seven For A Secret [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Character Study, Conversations, Gen, Letters, Most characters only show up once, My First Fanfic, No beta we die like lemmings, POV Outsider, episodic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpherae/pseuds/Alpherae
Summary: Never mind saving the Empire, what was a Dunmer from the ashlands of Vvardenfell doing in the Imperial City in the first place?
Series: Seven For A Secret [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540762
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Out of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this was the first fanfic I ever started (not long after Oblivion came out). No promises as to quality or consistency of style, also I rejigged Hainab's name and pronouns repeatedly so please point out any slips there or elsewhere.
> 
> I didn't mind the Oblivion main quest but the storyline only really worked with a PC who (a) wanted to help the Empire, (b) usually followed orders, and (c) wasn't interested in the side quests until after. Incorporating Morrowind politics derailed that, but rather than rewrite the events I wanted to figure out what sort of Ashlander _would_ go along with things and why.
> 
> Pay attention to the dates, I ordered the chapters how I did for a reason, but if it matters to you the timeline goes 1, 3, 5, 7, 2, 4, 6, 8. Chapter titles pinched from the poem _Invictus_ by William Ernest Henley, and used in chronological order, if that helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied/referenced rape and discussion of infanticide, in this chapter only.  
> Tusenend is a shrine to Molag Bal, in his aspect as one of the Four Corners of the House of Troubles.

**Erabenimsun Camp, Vardenfell, Morrowind  
19th day of Hearth Fire (Children’s Day), 3E 412**

As the ashkhan entered the yurt, the wise-woman was crouched on the mat beside the hearth, washing her hands. He looked past her at the corpse of another, younger woman and scowled.

“Kausha told me that the child still lives.” The wise-woman nodded, and his scowl deepened.

“Well, Manirai, tell me!” he demanded. “Is it healthy? Likely to thrive?”

She shrugged and replied, “It’s a baby. It needs milk, warmth, love. If it gets those things, then its chances are as good as any child.”

The man stood there in silence for several minutes, and Manirai called in her apprentice to help remove the body. Outside, the chimes could be faintly heard above the winds. When the wise-woman returned and knelt to hang a kettle of water over the fire, the ashkhan dropped down beside her and sighed.

“It has not been a good year.”

Manirai looked at him sideways, and smiled wryly.

“It is rarely a good year, Airan-Ammu,” she said, and went on gently, “What you mean, I think, is that it has been a very bad year.”

He didn’t reply.

“It has been so bad, I think, that it would have been hard for the tribe to carry even a child whose mother survived, let alone an orphaned babe. When that babe could be anything but Erabenimsun...” She flicked her fingers as though brushing away ash into the air, and Airan-Ammu sat back in surprise.

“She never told you where she came from?”

The wise-woman shook her head.

“She never spoke, never a word. In truth, I’m not at all sure she realised she was dying.” Manirai shivered and turned her attention back to the heating kettle. “I think her mind had fled long since.”

Airan-Ammu tugged one ear thoughtfully. “The hunters found her south and west of here. She couldn’t have travelled far in her state and with a baby besides, but there’s not much in the way of friendly camps out there. Mabrigash, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she said. “Mimanu told me a while back that one had disappeared; she matches the description. And before you ask, the child’s female—and it made no difference. Mimanu flatly refused to take it; she didn't even wait to know which it was.” She picked up a cloth and pulled the kettle off the fire. The ashkhan handed her the jar of trama tea and the cups, and shifted over to give her enough room to pour. “I don't think it was the Telvanni: they know better and a mabrigash wouldn't be easy to subdue. It would only be if they had a purpose for her and they'd look after such a prize carefully. This one—she’d been mistreated for a long time, and just for the fun of it.”

The man took the full cup back carefully. “When you say mistreated, what do you mean? I know there’s at least one nest of leeches somewhere between here and the Mountain,” he said, frowning. “We should do something about that.”

“Well, unless they’ve learnt a bit of self-control, it weren’t them,” she replied tartly. “And don't even think of leading a raid against that lot. The tribe's too small to take them on.”

They glared at each other. She knew that he would not willingly harm a child, but the tribe was already short on food. The ashkhan held the power—the responsibility—of life and death over his people: if given no other choice he would kill the babe himself, lest any claim he was becoming soft, and the deed would eat at his heart.

She dropped her eyes and tossed a piece of kindling on the fire. _This will have to be done carefully_.

“I thought, perhaps, that one of the other tribes might take her in,” she said. “The Zainab live well in the grazelands, they could easily afford another mouth to feed.”

Airan-Ammu scowled again. “I'm sure they could, but I'm also sure that we cannot afford the price they'd ask of us. When have they ever done anything for good will alone?”

“That is true, but what of the others?” Manirai asked softly.

The ashkhan shook his head. “Urshilaku are in much the same situation as we are, Manirai, and no reason to accept a strange child besides. Ahemmusa—they would take the child, but there is something _wrong_ there. Their lands are no worse than those of the Zainab, but the blight is much heavier on them. I will not lay another weight on their shoulders.”

The wise-woman tapped a finger against her cup, keeping her eyes firmly on the hearth fire.

“The Urshilaku, I think, have had a very good sea-harvest, and I know of a reason for them to take her in and happily.” She paused. Now it became dangerous. “They pay more mind to the old prophecies than we do, and there is one that tells of a child born on a certain day to uncertain parents.”

“And you believe that this child fits? You already said you know who the mother was.”

 _Careful_.

“I said I knew who the woman was, but no more. I was a wise-woman and healer before you could lift a spear, Airan, and I tell you true: she has never born a child. Barely more than a child herself, truth be told.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then who...”

“South and west of us is Tusenend. Which daedra rules that shrine?”

The ashkhan hissed, and one hand put the cup down while the other shifted to his dagger. He surged to his feet and turned towards the baby sleeping in the basket behind him, before the wise-woman grabbed his wrist.

“No!”

“Uncertain parents, you said! Never mind who, should I have asked what?” Instinct alone kept his voice down, knowing most of the camp probably had their ears pressed to the yurt walls.

“The babe is mer, I'm sure of it!” she said, trying to hide her desperation. “Maybe not full Dunmer, it's hard to tell at this age, but she's as mortal as you or I, Airan. Just a little baby girl, nothing more!”

“Knowing _this_ , what makes you think the Urshilaku will take it?” His eyes glittered and she relaxed slightly. As long as he kept talking rather than acting, the child was safe. She still didn't dare let go of him.

“I don't know much of the prophecy or the lore behind it, but the their wise-women keep the knowledge to themselves and won't expect even that little of me. There's a trader passing through soon who could take him. Say she was found near the camp in the arms of a mabrigash who was not her mother. Say that she might match the prophecy but we don't know enough to be sure.”

“What if they decide it doesn't?”

“Then they'll either keep her anyway or pass her on. House Redoran has a fishing village not far from their camp.”

“And Redoran has its faults, but a lack of honour isn't one of them. At least it isn't Telvanni or Hlaalu.” Airan-Ammu sighed. “I do not like the idea of an Ashland child growing up under the Temple, but there are worst fates.”

He twisted his wrist slightly, with a wry look at the wise-woman, and she finally let go. The dagger went neatly into its sheath, and he turned his back on the basket with a determined air. “I don't want her in camp any longer than need be, Manirai. Something from the shrine might come sniffing after their lost toy.”

She nodded. “Send Zallit then. He's old enough to start chasing the girls, and too close kin to catch them. He'd have to move on soon in any case, might as well be now.”

The ashkhan considered her words for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Done. He's not the best of the herders anyway, even if we had anything to herd. I'll tell him to go through Ahemmusa Camp on his way back; they'll have use for an extra pair of working hands.” The ashkhan scooped up his discarded cup and finished off the dregs of the tea before dropping it carefully back in its place in one of the baskets lining the wall.

“In fact, I'll tell him now. Give him time to get ready.”

Manirai nodded, and bent to pick up the kettle. _I'll have to find a travelling sling, enough milk for two days travel..._ She began to consider who would be willing to spare an old blanket or two.

As Airan-Ammu moved to open the door, he paused, caught by a thought he had lost earlier. “Did the mabrigash say why they wouldn't even consider taking the baby? Was it because the woman wasn't the mother? I wouldn't have thought it would matter to them.”

Manirai managed not to drop the kettle into the fire, but she was certain he saw her flinch. Thankfully, her voice seemed only a little more gravelly than normal.

“I didn't tell them.”

“Go on.”

“Mimanu told me they would take no Balkynd.” She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to: the ashkhan was bright enough to figure it out. _Stone-child_.

For a moment, she thought he would attack. The door post creaked in his fist and his eyes flared in the firelight, flicking between her and the babe. The ashkhans of the Erabenimsun were notorious for their war-rages: it was whispered that the worst of them had accounted for more deaths among their own tribe than among their enemies. Airan-Ammu had never lost control before, but there was a first time for everything.

Finally, he relaxed with a shudder. The wise-woman held still, watching him warily. The ashkhan slowly let go of the post and flexed his fingers.

“I want it out of here _now_ ,” he said. He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and left, leaving the door to flap loose behind him.

As the wise-woman began to scrabble together what the baby would need for travel, she could hear the ashkhan yelling over the wind.

“Zallit? Where are you?”

She had argued to save the life of an infant. She had told herself that it deserved a chance, no matter its parentage.

“Zallit! Get your things together!”

It was true, but still...

“Move, boy! I want you in Tel Vos by nightfall!”

She would be glad when the thing was gone from Erabenimsun Camp.


	2. Wrath and Tears

**The Undercroft of the Imperial Prison, the Imperial City, Cyrodiil  
27th day of Last Seed (Harvest's End), 3E 433**

As the last assassin fell, Baurus paused a moment to catch his breath and wrap his scarf tightly around the gash in his leg. Four bodies in red robes lay scattered around him on the cold stone floor, but the fifth wore the same akaviri armor as he did. He cursed and bent to check on Glenroy, but jerked up again at the sound of metal against metal coming from the small room behind him. There was only one narrow entrance, and he'd have sworn that none of the attackers had got past them.

_That blasted prisoner... Glenroy was right!_

The Blade charged into the room to find a figure wearing the same conjured armor as the other assassins, standing with their back to him. They had someone else cornered and was trying to slash at them with a dagger, hampered slightly by the close quarters and the target's refusal to either hold still or fight fair. Baurus took the assassin down from behind without a qualm. The conjured weapon dissolved into a shower of sparks, as did the armor, and the attacker crumbled to the floor.

Against the wall stood a young Dunmer in prison rags, clutching a tattered leather shield. Several red lines split the tattooed bars on her cheek, marking where the assassin had got past her guard, but she seemed otherwise unhurt. Baurus stared at her in shock. The mer stared back.

“Where's the emperor?”

“O-over... over there,” the young mer stuttered, and the Blade turned around.

An elderly Imperial sat slumped in the other corner, a growing pool of blood staining his expensive clothes. Behind him, a small alcove was set into each wall. One still looked as solid as all the similar alcoves they had passed on the way here, but the back of the wall opposite had shifted aside, leaving a gap to show how the attacker had got into the protected room.

Baurus walked over and slowly, carefully knelt beside the body of the last Septim emperor. A Blade didn't flinch when he was wounded, he didn't hold back when his comrades were dead, and he certainly didn't break down in tears after completely and irrevocably failing in his duty. _No matter how much I want to. Oh, Talos, what do I do now?_ He shook his head. Blood loss was not helping his concentration at all, but this was not the time to pass out.

The prisoner placed the shield on the floor behind him, and edged her way into the Blade's line of view. In other circumstances, he might have been amused at the care taken not to startle a distracted fighter, but his eye was caught by the gleaming red-and-gold amulet the mer held out. _The Amulet of Kings._

“He gave it,” the prisoner said, swallowing. “Didn't take it, he _gave_ it. He... he talked about weird things, don't know what he meant, and then he gave it, and then the hunter came out of... of the wall and attacked. It was the hunter killed him.”

She paused, and said again. “It _was_ the hunter that killed him. Didn't have anything like that dagger, just a bow, can't use it this close. Can’t use it at all. _Didn't_ kill him.” She sounded nervous, confused. Baurus couldn't really blame her.

“It's all right,” he said softly. “I believe you. I can't blame you for not being able to protect him. That was my job.”

The prisoner looked like she didn't quite believe it. She shivered suddenly, and swung the amulet towards the Blade, holding it out again. Baurus looked at her thoughtfully. The nature of the work meant that a bodyguard learnt a lot about his charge. After spending five years watching over Uriel Septim, he had never once seen the Emperor put his trust in the wrong person, no matter how strange his actions seemed to his guards at the time. Of course, he hadn't trusted all that many people anyway.

“Tell me what he said.”

The Dunmer shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flickering around the room. “He said take it to Jauffre, said find his last son. Said something about ‘closing the jaws of Oblivion’, don't know what he meant.” The amulet dangled from her hand, contrasting oddly with the prison rags and wrist irons, glinting red in the torchlight.

Baurus nodded. “That's what you'll have to do then. Jauffre's our Grandmaster, he lives as a simple brother at Weynon Priory, near Chorrel. You should be able to reach there by tomorrow morning if you hurry.”

“What!” The young mer looked so horrified, it was almost funny. “Didn't take it, don't want it, don't want anything to do with those blighted hunters either!” She went to drop the amulet, but the chain tangled in her fingers.

“Someone has to go, and someone has to stay,” Baurus said as she unwound the links around her hand. “I will not leave the Emperor alone here, and he gave the amulet to you.”

“So? He's dead!”

“So, the Amulet of Kings needs to get to the Emperor's heir as soon as possible. So, I trust the Emperor to know what he was doing. So, you will take it to Chorrel immediately. It doesn't sound like we have much time.”

The chain caught and knotted tightly around the Dunmer's wrist and she snarled.

“You were out there fighting, you don't even know if it were truth.”

“Was it the truth?”

For a moment, it seemed like she would refuse to answer, but finally she sighed. “Yes.”

“I thought so,” Baurus said, rubbing his head wearily. “It's the sort of thing he _would_ do. Besides, from what he said earlier, you do have a part to play in this matter. This may be it.”

The Dunmer glared at the amulet, and tried to fling it away. The chain twisted, the gemstone swung around, and the gold setting clipped the mer painfully on her elbow. Baurus couldn't hold back a ragged laugh as the other cursed harshly. The words were not quite understandable, but the tone was clear.

“You owe him,” the Blade added. “He told us to leave you be when Captain Renault would have had you thrown into another cell. _He_ told us to let you pass when Glenroy believed you were a threat. You have freedom and life now because of him.”

The prisoner—the ex-prisoner—tugged the amulet's chain over her hand in silence. Baurus let her think about it, he could tell that anything else he could say wouldn't help. _Please, let her agree to this. Talos, let me be right about this!_

“What if Jauffre doesn't think it's truth?” the mer asked.

“I'll send a messenger when I can, but you should get there before any word comes from me. Jauffre is a fair judge of character, and giving him the amulet will go a long way towards convincing him.” The Blade kept his voice confident, but he knew there was a good chance the Grandmaster would have the mer locked away again or even killed. _We do as we must, and let honour fall where it will._

The room was silent for a moment as the Dunmer looked at the amulet, then at the dead assassin at her feet and the emperor on the floor in the corner. Even Baurus couldn't quite work out what she was thinking. Finally, she nodded.

“All right. The amulet to Jauffre, but no more. Got lucky with that one, don't want attention from more hunters. Sneaky lot.”

“Fair enough,” Baurus said. “But I would guess you're not bad at moving unseen yourself. If you're careful, you should be able to get through the sewers with no problems. I'll keep an eye out here, make sure no one follows you.”

The Dunmer bundled the amulet and the key to the sewer gate into a small pouch Baurus normally used for beggar’s coins. The chain slipped in easily, and she muttered under her breath as she tied the pouch to the rope belt at her waist.

“Still think this is a stupid idea,” she told him bluntly, and leapt up into the gap in the wall, moving swiftly along the passageway out of sight before he could reply.

“Crazy, maybe,” Baurus muttered. He pushed himself to his feet again, and limped over to the assassin. _And what's an Altmer doing in that line of work, anyway?_ A few strips of the robe added to his scarf finally stopped the slow bleeding from his leg, and he was able to haul the dead man out to join his fellows.

Dragging Glenroy back in to lie beside the Emperor took the last of his strength and will. Captain Renault lay too far from here, and he would not leave his charge alone. He had nothing left to do now except wait for someone to come find them.

Assassin or Blade. Either would do. It didn't matter that much to him anymore.


	3. Whatever God May Be

**The ashlands south-west of Urshilaku Camp, Vvardenfell, Morrowind  
2nd day of Sun's Dawn (Mad Pelagius), 3E 419**

The cliff-racer hung on the wind easily, calling when the whim took it to announce its territory. Trudging through the thick ash to the south, a young girl moved from plant to withered plant and glanced nervously up at the sky each time it called. The things were notoriously vicious, often diseased, and without a bow she had to rely on getting her spear up in time if—when—it decided to attack.

_Should have gone fishing instead, child._

Of course, there was no promise that she would have caught anything, which was no doubt why she had gone inland to gather trama root in the first place. The fish were becoming harder to find, and the mudcrabs were dwindling too. The only life moving along the shores these days was the cliff-racers, and no one was desperate enough to eat one of those.

The girl tucked herself in behind a rock pillar, and watched the cliff-racer swooping uneasily from side to side in the sky. With no bow she was no threat, and the creatures feared little else.

She frowned in confusion, brushing wind-tangled hair out of her eyes.

_Turn around._

She looked south, towards the Mountain, for the first time in an hour. The Breath of the Mountain was familiar and even comforting in the chill of early spring, and she'd forgotten that outside the camp there would be no chimes to sound warning. The great volcano was nearly hidden from view by a swirling, boiling red mist, livid fingers stretching out over the darkening sky, and the wind singing over the crater grew louder with every breath.

_Ash storm!_

Her mind froze and instinct took over. The girl threw herself down the far side of the ridge, still clutching the spear, and ran. An ash storm was an inconvenience to an alit hunkered down behind a ridge; a hardened warrior would find it uncomfortable, but a child with neither hide nor armour for protection had little chance of survival. If the ash didn't choke her, predators would find her once the wind dropped, drawn by the scent of blood seeping from raw skin.

“Shelter, shelter. Ancestors, there has to be _something_ around here!” she begged aloud. The ashlands were scattered with caves, ruins and old tombs, but she was far out beyond her normal range and there wasn't time for exploration.

_East, go east._

The ash was already rising, and surely she could smell the blight in the air, sour as the cindergrass. Confused and disorientated, the girl’s path curved to bring her back up against the ridge. She stumbled along it, too stubborn to give up, until a hard object rammed into her shoulder and broke her grip on the spear. It gave a little, as no stone would, and groping fingers found bars that shifted under her touch and something that felt a lot like a latch.

_It's a door, you little s'wit. Open it, open it!_

The girl dragged the door open and fell through, forcing it closed again against the prying wind, and curled into a choking, gasping ball as the ashstorm sang on the other side of the sturdy timber. Stifling her coughs as soon as she could, the girl looked around in case anyone had heard. There were few uninhabited caves in the Ashlands: outlawed tribesmer, bandits, necromancers, and worse things all found the isolation attractive. A wise child would get out of the entranceway as soon as she could.

Dim red candles lit the tunnel and she hesitated, a wise woman's tales of the ill-bound dead no doubt ringing in her ears, but she followed the winding passage down. There was not much in the way of suitable hiding places: the tunnel floor was clean and largely uncluttered, and the candles well-placed to remove all concealment. The obvious thing to do would have been to blow out a candle or two and hide among the few rocks, as the deeper she went the harder it would be to escape.

_Keep moving, child. It's safer._

The air grew warmer, and bells echoed up from the depths like deeper and more melodious storm-chimes. The girl passed two chambers where lava pooled, ebbing and surging like water, but the chimes called still and she followed them on. She had stopped looking for a hiding place, had even stopped trying to be quiet and stealthy. She hurried as much as she could in the dimness, making her way by touch as well as sight, until she stumbled into a soft billow of cloth.

Fighting her way clear of the fabric, she looked up to see the resident of the cave: a tall, slim creature in a gray robe. Elam had been a beautiful woman before the reshaping of the Divine Disease, and even her Lord had to admit the result could be startling to one unfamiliar with its effects.

Not unreasonably, the girl muffled a squeak and leapt sideways, trying to put her back to the wall. Her foot caught on a stone edge and she fell heavily across polished lavastone steps, twisting her ankle painfully. She lay still for a moment, stunned, and Elam crouched beside her as she tried to cower away, wedging herself into the corner between the wall and a tall stone brazier.

Elam moved carefully, running cool fingers along the child’s foot until she flinched, humming softly to herself. Her voice was lighter and less powerful than many in the Song, but power was not needed here. The child didn't pull away when she used the end of her sash to dab away the panicked tears on her cheeks, nor when the woman gently eased her out of the corner and into her arms.

She carried the girl up and over the steps to the next room, setting her down again on the edge of the dais. In the centre there was a statue made of black stone set with red, no taller than a child, and smaller versions sat in the niches of two pillars at the back of the room. To one side there was a large basin, on the other side stood a framework carrying a row of bells, and red and black banners hung on the walls of the cave. A plate with rolls of meat had been placed in front of the statue.

The girl rubbed a finger over the icon etched into the stone of the dais, and gasped aloud. “House Dagoth?”

She knew the tales of the Sharmat Dagoth Ur, of course, and of his cursed House. Every child of the Tribes knew that the Devil lived under Red Mountain and plotted to rule all dunmer, just as they knew that the Tribunal were false gods who murdered the hero Nerevar to gain power. But whether she could learn better...

Elam walked over to the bells and picked up a hammer that had been resting against the bell-frame. She swung it firmly against the largest bell, letting it ring alone for a heartbeat before moving to another, and then a third. The chord hung in the air, throbbing and echoing through the cave, and letting Dagoth Ur speak and be heard by those not yet within the Song.

_What is your name, little one?_

The girl shivered and licked her lips. The thought of lying crossed her face briefly, and vanished in a wave of fear. “Hainab, Clanfriend of Urshilaku,” she said softly.

_Indeed? Not 'Child of Urshilaku'? I had not thought that one so young would be ranked within the Tribes, unless... ah. I see._

Hainab huddled down, her head tucked into her arm, as if she expected scorn instead of pity.

_I will not ask you of your ancestors, little one, but will you tell me of those who watch over you in their place? Do they care for you as a family should?_

The girl shrugged, and nodded, still not looking up. “They are kind to me.”

_But are you happy? Are you loved?_

“Yes,” Hainab said hesitantly. “But I am… ungrateful.”

Ungrateful. The child's soul was as light as pumice, and just as hollow. The wise woman at least should have seen the emptiness there, but Sera Nibani's failure could be House Dagoth's gain.

_Some may be able to love without being loved in return, little one, but it is not a thing that a child should be expected to do. I think, perhaps, you need a proof of that love which they are unable to give you. It is not your fault, little one, and it is not truly their fault either. Am I correct?_

Hainab shrugged again.

_Are you lonely, little one?_

She nodded.

_Do you wish to have a House as well as a Tribe? A family that provides for your heart and soul as Urshilaku provides for your body?_

The child went very still. Surely, she had heard of Housemer who had sworn themselves to a Tribe but were still of their old House. Indoril Nerevar himself had done so, and his shield-man Alandro Sul as well. And the one who became Dagoth Ur had been a friend to Nerevar before he died, did she know that? Would she remember?

Elam placed the bell-hammer gently on the ground and walked back to the dais. She picked up the plate in front of the statue and sat down beside Hainab, holding it out to her as she looked up.

_Will you eat, little one? No child of mine should ever go hungry._

She looked at the pieces of meat, taking a deep breath and the smallest piece, and nibbled at it cautiously. The Song took the opening like a dam break, filling the gaps in the child's soul and sweeping her under a flood of minds.

Lord Dagoth himself took up by far the most space, but around and through him were thousands of minds and hearts, great and small, that laughed and sang and worked and learned and created and trained and planned and wove themselves into a Song that _was_ the House. There were sources of pain as well, but those surrounding the ones in pain helped to comfort and console them, and even the pain became part of the Song.

A single Ashlander child was very small in this multitude of voices, yet her Lord still heard her and laughed at her delight. Hainab smiled up at Dagoth Elam, and with the curve of her trunk and the tickle of her mind the priestess smiled back.


	4. Yet The Menace

**The Imperial Reserve, north of Skingrad, Cyrodiil  
3rd day of Hearth Fire (Tales & Tallows), 3E 433**

Compared with the fire and horror of ruined Kvatch, Martin thought the tree-filled woods were kind and inviting, but his guide didn't seem to agree. The Dunmer had been cautious while passing through the plains around Kvatch and Skingrad, but as they travelled up into the forest of the foothills she had clearly become more and more nervous. As dusk fell, the mer had insisted they continue on with only the waxing moons to light their way, but rest-stops had become more common as Martin grew tired.

“Do you think we're being followed?” he asked, watching the other— _Hainab, she said?—_ peer back along their trail past the tree trunks in the dim light. Martin was slumped on a rock, trying to rub the ache out his legs. _I haven't been out enough lately, what I wouldn't give for a horse right now!_

Hainab shook her head. Getting words out of her was difficult, but Martin persisted.

“What are you looking for, then? Bandits? Bears?” The mer glanced quickly back.

“Are there bears in these woods, then?” she asked.

Martin blinked for a moment, taken aback. If she didn't know that much...

Hainab snorted softly. “Grew up in Vvardenfell. No bears there. Not as many blighted trees either.”

_Oh. That's the problem._

“I take it that you're—you don't like enclosed spaces then?” the priest asked carefully. The mer shrugged and turned back to her watch.

“Trees get in the way of the view, is all. Lucky it's a clear night, or wouldn't see a thing.”

Martin stretched and pushed himself up from the rock. He still felt like his feet were weighted with stones, but it was probably time they moved on. The mer muttered to herself for a moment, then leaned over and tapped Martin on the shoulder.

“Might as well sit down again, priest, get some sleep. Slow as you are, it'll be quicker to rest now and move on in a few hours. Probably get lost anyway.”

Martin tried not to relax too obviously, but he was pretty sure the mer noticed his muffled sigh of relief. Hainab sat down with her back to a tree, as her charge settled himself on the ground against the rock. Martin shifted slightly on the hard ground but, tired as he was, sleep overwhelmed him almost immediately.

≈|≈|≈

The noise comes first.

He's in the Mages Guild, debating Restoration techniques with Dynari and Jo'riska over ale. They lost track of time but Ilav knows where he is, he’s stayed overnight at the guildhall before. There had been a storm earlier and the rumble of the opening Gate sounds just like thunder, they pay no attention. Then Jo'riska starts shaking his head, rubbing at his ears. He hears it too, once he knows to listen: a faint high whine like wind through a cave, getting louder and louder. Dynari is deaf as a post but her eyes are still sharp: she’s the first to notice the red light flickering in the windows.

They think it is a house on fire, despite the rain. They run outside to help. They stumble together on the steps, see people running, screaming, dying.

Dynari pushes them towards the Chapel. Dynari throws a fireball at a dremora bending over a child, hauls the child up, throws the child to him, tells them to run, smiles in triumph at the dremora as the mace comes down.

She is screaming as they grab anyone in the way and run for the Chapel. She is still screaming when they close the doors.

Inside the Chapel it’s quiet. The only sound from outside is the high whine of the open Gate. It carries over the sobs and the weeping, the prayers and curses of the few survivors. Only a half-dozen or so make it to safety, but the daedra won't enter.

Some of those who make it become impatient or bored, or worried for the safety of another, and refuse to remain. Jo'riska will leave an hour before sunrise to look for the girl he is courting. Her family live across the road from the Chapel. Just a quick look, it shouldn't take long. He won't come back. The daedra won't enter.

Red light seeps through the high windows. One is shattered and dust drifts through to cloud the air. Rubble buries the stairwell of the belltower, there is nowhere left to climb to now. The door thumps and shifts with the sound of blows. The daedra won't enter.

Jo'riska opens the door.

The daedra won't...

Scamps pour through, clannfear, dremora. The survivors never stand a chance.

He's on the ground behind the altar, the child heavy in his arms, the marble cold against his back. The dremora smiles just like Dynari.

The mace goes up.

The mace comes dow–

≈|≈|≈

Martin jerked awake, and hissed as his head knocked painfully against the rock behind him.

“What is it?” Hainab asked quietly.

“Nothing. Just... nothing.”

“Then go to _sleep_. An hour or two won't do any harm.”

Martin settled back again, and tried to relax.

≈|≈|≈

Dynari is screaming as they grab anyone in the way and run for the Chapel. Jo'riska is just ahead, dragging fiery old Guilbert by one arm and the scruff of his shirt. Oleta stands at the doorway. She’s terrified but she keeps the heavy door open, holding it just wide enough for them to pass.

Martin scrambles up the steps, slipping on wet stone, almost there, and green light blossoms through the red. His legs won't move, every muscle is frozen.

And as he topples, paralysed, he can't stop the child falling out of his arms to shatter against the stone edge.

≈|≈|≈

This time, Martin woke up to find himself wedged between the rock and the ground. He wriggled out and shifted position to sit upright against a tree.

“Hainab?” he whispered.

“Not carrying you. Get some rest.” Hainab replied, sounding annoyed.

“I am resting. I just... I don't think sleep will help,” he said. The mer leaned forward out of the shadows to look at him.

“So that's the way of it?” For the first time Hainab seemed almost sympathetic. “Been there before. It'll pass in time. Best to keep your mind busy for now, but do need to rest your legs.”

“Maybe you could tell me what it's like to be a Blade?” Martin asked.

“Wouldn't know,” Hainab said. “Not a Blade.”

The silence held for a moment.

“But you said the Blades were looking for me. You _said_ that this Jauffre was the Grandmaster and that I needed to talk with him about my father.” Martin said, confused.

“True enough,” Hainab said. “In the wrong place at the wrong time, ended up running Jauffre's little errand. Doubt he were too happy about it, neither, but no one else to send. The rest were busy or most likely known to your hunters already.”

“Hunters? What hunters? Assassins, you mean? Why would anyone want me dead?”

Hainab shrugged. “Probably same reason they killed your da. Not sure why that happened, but they seemed fairly set on it.”

Martin thought about this for a little while, but it still made no sense.

“My father was a sheep farmer,” he said. “He caught the droops, and died when he tripped and fell into an old mine shaft. I was just fourteen years old at the time, but I was there. It was... it was why I spent my life the way I have.” _First running from death, then fighting it when it caught up with me anyway._

“Not that one,” Hainab replied. “The other one.”

“What other one?”

“The real one.”

“ _What_ real one?”

“Jauffre will tell you.”

“I'm not asking Jauffre, I'm asking you!”

There was a harsh, barking cough. It didn't come from the mer's direction. They both froze in place, scarcely breathing. The sound came again, a little further off.

“Just to the sou'east, beyond that fallen tree. Big, but low and long,” Hainab breathed. “Bear, most like?”

“How can you see that?” Martin asked. “It's too dark.”

Hainab fumbled for a moment at her neck, then reached over to tuck something into Martin's hand.

“That.”

Martin wrapped the thin length of braided leather around his wrist. A pinkish shimmer appeared where Hainab crouched in the shadow of a tree. Another gleamed to the south-east, dwindling as the bear moved away from them.

“Time to move on.”

Martin nodded, and stood up carefully. He held out the leather strap to Hainab.

“Here, and thank you.”

The mer's expression was blurred by the shimmering life-light, but she seemed to be looking the priest over carefully.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Huh. Take after him, don't you,” Hainab said. “Keep it for now. Give it back at the priory.”

“The priory? Very well, but who are you talking about. Who do I take after?”

“Your father. The real one.”

“My father. Of course, my father. And who, may I ask, is supposed to be this _real_ father?” He was finding it more and more difficult to keep his voice down.

“Ask Jauffre.”

“And then what? Once Jauffre tells me about this unknown man, will the daedra vanish? Will these assassins give up? What next?”

“The Imperial City, most like.” Hainab sounded like she was smiling.

“Why?”

“He said the Dragonfires need relighting.”

“But the lighting of the Dragonfires is part of the coronation ceremonies for the Emperor. After the assassinations... oh, no. No.”

“What now?” Hainab asked. She was definitely amused.

“You cannot mean that my father...”

“Ask Jauffre.”

Martin stopped still and tried to work out what he felt. He'd always had a knack for seeing the truth in a situation, and it seemed to be failing him. Right now nothing made sense, but that instinct was telling him _yes, this is right, this is true._ It was the first time he had felt certain of anything since the daedra appeared in Kvatch.

“I'll talk to Jauffre.” he said finally. “I won't promise anything else, but I will talk to him.”

“Good, then,” Hainab replied, and started walking again through the trees toward Weynon Priory. Martin took a deep breath and followed her.


	5. Nor Cried Aloud

**Ashlands south of Urshilaku Camp, Vvardenfell, Morrowind  
2nd day of Morning Star (Scour Day), 3E 427**

It was a nice day, as much as it could be in the Ashlands. The sky was mostly clear, with only the lightest touch of red to taint the blue. There was no sea-wind to leech away the slight warmth of the winter sun. The only creatures within sight were a herd of guar moving along the coast, and even the Mountain was quiet. It seemed to be a waiting quiet, true, but quiet all the same, and Nibani gave a sigh of relief as the weight of the Sharmat’s mind diminished to little more than a feather. His attention was fixed elsewhere today, hopefully on the blight-take-them Tribunal, and she spared a wish to the Ancestors that he and they might take the same path as the Dwemer (wherever _that_ had led and good riddance to them too) and leave the Tribes in peace.

The wise-woman shrugged away her reverie and looked around for her companion. Hainab was crouched beside a stone pillar on the ridge above her, running a finger absently along her necklet as she kept watch. _Now that was a good idea, and never mind the price Zainab demanded for it._ She clicked her tongue, and the herder looked down at her and frowned.

“Nothing but guar, sera,” she said as she made her way down. “But something’s not right. Don’t know what. Don’t know _why_ it feels like that. Just... not right.”

Nibani blinked in confusion. “All seemed well to me,” she said. “Peaceful.” She looked at the young mer, and smiled. “It has not felt this peaceful since long before you came to us. Perhaps that is why it doesn’t feel right to you.”

The mer scuffed a boot through the ash uncertainly, but she didn’t argue with the wise-woman. _Sensible girl_. “Which way from here?” she asked instead.

“I am sure this is the Dragon’s Spine, which means there should be another sign visible from here,” Nibani said. “From what the Ancestors said, you will be the one to see it.”

“The Ancestors spoke my name?” Hainab looked a little sick, as well she might. A wise-woman’s visions could mean good or ill once interpreted, but when the Dead spoke so plainly it seldom turned out well for the poor mer involved.

“The stone sits beside the hearthfire of the Tribe but not in it,” Nibani recalled easily. “When the storm breaks over the dragon’s spine, follow the stone into the dying flame to find that which is lost to the Tribe.”

“Which is...?” she asked warily.

“A pendant or necklace, I think. I caught flashes of rubies and ebony, which does not sound like a thing of the Tribes, but I do not like the sound of the last part.” The wise-woman shook her head. “The two fires are not the same, I believe, but better to know for certain.”

Hainab looked around. As far as Nibani could see the surrounding area was covered in the same purple-gray ash as usual, with nothing growing but brown trama and black cindergrass, not even a single fire fern to break the monotony. If the young herder saw anything different, she didn’t react.

“No storm, no fire,” she told her, and turned to clamber up the ridge again. “Best to wait?”

“We will wait,” she agreed, moving away. There was a wind-worn rock nearby that would be comfortable enough once she stripped the thorns from the surrounding trama roots. She was certain that this was the right time to be here, so it shouldn’t be long.

The storm burst in an instant. Nibani dropped to her knees as the pressure inside her head hammered down until she thought her skull would burst. The wind swirled and screamed around her, raising the ash to flay skin and smother breath, and had she not been looking in the right direction she would never have seen Hainab tumble from the ridge to land beside her, limp as a child’s doll.

Close as she was, it took no more than a heartbeat to haul the girl’s head onto her lap, out of the choking ash. Her skin was chill as the sea-wind, and her pulse fluttered under her fingers like a dying flame.

“Ancestors,” she whispered, unsure if she meant it as curse or blessing or plea, or all three in one. She gathered her mind and her courage, and leaped.

≈|≈|≈

Nibani moves through a long cave, floor and walls worn smooth by generations upon generations of reverent feet and gentle hands. She is no scout to recognise any place instantly by sight and scent, but she knows the gray stone of the Ashlands well and the dim red candles warn her of the likely occupants.

Around the corner, the red-and-black of the banners is no more than she expects, but the little girl curled up next to the statue on the dais is a surprise. She is weeping soundlessly.

When Nibani touches the child with an insubstantial hand, she flinches back...

A second cave: darker and deeper than the first. The tunnel is flooded and her skirt is quickly soaked, but the warm, murky water is silent. She scoops her hands full and lets the water leak between her fingers: the drops fall back without a sound, leaving her skin dyed red. Ahead, a small figure slips under the water...

Mortared stone and high columns mark an old stronghold, chalked symbols on the walls declaring its allegiance. Banners are ripped and tattered, the overturned braziers give neither heat nor light, and the bells vibrate silently. The young mer drops the bell-hammer and turns away...

Bone-white tunnels twist and turn. The wind funnels through the maze, whipping her damp skirt around her legs, but its howling voice is mute. She ducks around a corner...

The polished stone, the orange and blue tiles of an Ald-Ruhn manor, but the candles have burnt out and ash lies in drifts on the floor. On the stairs...

A cavern formed from the red mudstone of the coast, but the waves’ thunder is missing...

Black rock and gray ash...

The deck of a drifting ship moves under her feet, the crew slumped and senseless around her...

Dank stonework, bones under a fallen banner...

Red candlelight, guttering...

Cooling lava...

The ancient ruin is completely and utterly silent. Nibani has not entered one of the old Dwemer fortresses since she was a girl in training, but she remembers the noise well. Even in the long absence of the builders their mechanical tools and toys rattle on. Their halls echo with the crunching of gears, the hiss of steam and the moans of stressed metal; the walls and floors hum with a simulacrum of life.

This ruin is dead.

She walks along still passageways, lit only by the lava that flows beneath the floor-grates. The Mountain is reclaiming the spaces within, but it is a slow process. Down and down she travels, until the smooth, warm metal becomes rough, damp rock.

The cavern beyond the last door is cramped and compressed. She picks a way through the rubble to the far end, where a tangle of fallen rocks and crushed metal mark a blocked exit. A young mer is curled up at the base of the rock pile, still and silent.

Nibani pauses, catching her breath. The weight of the Mountain seems to press down on her, but it is stone and nothing more. Since the day she first took up a wise-woman’s tasks the pressure of Dagoth Ur’s mind on her own has been ever-present; without it now, her thoughts float like a cloud of ash. She shakes her head clear and tries to concentrate: the girl has fled far enough. It is time to act. Time to break the silence.

**Speak.**

For a heartbeat, she fears that the silence has overwhelmed her voice—then the girl rolls her head back, and the truth is much worse. Her gaze is vague, wandering, as it was before she learned to detect life, and the simple braid of guar leather at her throat has been replaced by a collar of black and red stone. No longer hidden by the ghost-mists, the markings on ‘that which is lost to the Tribe’ are horribly clear, and if it were not so unwise to curse one’s ancestors while mind-walking she would have cracked the silence with every foul and furious word she knew.

She holds little hope now: the girl has not said a word, and yet... Nibani would swear that she is still bound to Urshilaku, and _she_ is the wise-woman of the Tribe.

**Wake.**

≈|≈|≈

Nibani came back to herself slumped over the young fool, the pair of them dusted with ash. The storm had passed completely, and the sky above was now clear and blue as stoneflower petals. Reluctantly, she turned her attention to Hainab. The wise-woman knew any number of ways to draw back a mind-wandering mer—she used the one which gave her the most satisfaction.

A good, hard slap.

For a moment, she was afraid that it would not work, that she would be left too far from camp with a mind-lost body and no answers. Suddenly, Hainab twitched and began to choke. She rolled the girl off her lap and over to let her clear the last of the ash from her lungs.

Finally, Hainab pushed herself to her knees and looked up. Her eyes were not as direct as they had been before the storm rose, but still better than that fearful unfocused gaze she had shown in the depths of the Mountain.

“How long?” Nibani demanded. The young mer looked away again, but the echoes of her voice in the Mountain remained and she couldn’t refuse her.

“Since the last starving-time,” she said quietly. “The day before the rains came. Do you remember?”

She did. The child had seen perhaps six or seven winters by then, old enough at any rate to go out on her own to gather food. Hainab had returned with empty hands, but a confidence to her sight that she had not before, and she asked Nibani for the spell to detect life. Her skill for magic was marginal, but that night she had taken it up as though it was nothing more than a memory. Nibani still remembered what happened when she cast the spell. The girl had looked at her, not just in her direction but _at her_ , and had met her eyes for the first time since the Erabenimsun lad had placed her in her arms. She had given Hainab far-reaching and self-healing as well while she could, and gone to sleep hoping she might yet gain more.

The rains had returned that night, and the thought buried under the work and the celebrations. That summer had been one of the best in the Tribe’s memory, and food prepared then still rested in their storehouse, but despite her best efforts she had never been able to cram another spell into the girl’s head. The three she gained that night were all she could ever use, and her talent never developed.

Hainab had used the spell almost constantly for the next few years, until Nibani had travelled to the Zainab and traded all the coin she had collected in a long life for a simple twist of leather that let the child see life without needing to focus on casting all the time.

She had never wondered why her student had never improved despite the constant practice, why she had needed the spell in the first place. It had never occurred to her to question the girl about herself before. _What was I thinking? Why was I_ not _thinking?_

“Why?”

Hainab shrugged, drawing lines in the sand with a trama thorn, until she recognised the shape and grabbed the girl’s wrist. “There was a hole inside,” she said. “Didn’t know it was there until Lord Dagoth filled it. Now it’s empty again.”

“What do you mean?” Nibani asked carefully. _And I should truly like to know what_ Manirai _knew when she sent the babe to us_.

“All is silence,” she whispered. “The road is straight, without turning, in darkness.”

“I do not understand.”

“He’s dead, sera. Nerevar came to him again, and betrayed him again. The Heart of the Mountain is broken and the Soul is silent. There’s nothing left.” Her voice was that of an abandoned child, lost and alone in the dark.

Nibani rubbed her temples with weary fingers and cursed to herself, muttering the foulest words she could remember hearing or inventing in a lifetime of stubborn arguments. Finally, she stood up, hauling the girl to her feet by her wrist.

“Very well,” the wise-woman said. “This is what shall be done. I shall return to camp, and tell Sul-Matuul that you are continuing the quest of my vision. You shall go—I care not where—as long as you do not return to the Tribes. As long as no word comes to me that you have shamed the Tribe, then I shall not name you outcast. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sera,” Hainab said quietly. Nibani wasn’t sure she believed that, but her own heart was too sore to waste more care on the other.

Nibani dropped her hand and turned away. The fallen ash crunched too loudly under her feet, and she couldn’t hear if the girl walked away or stood still, or sat down again. She refused to look back, to know. It didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter to her anymore. All she hoped for was that the Breath of the Mountain would dry her skirt and her tears before she reached the camp.


	6. How Strait The Gate

**Outskirts of Bruma, Cyrodiil  
18th of Sun’s Dusk (Hel Anseilak), 3E 433**

“Jauffre, are you sure you're happy about this?”

“If she's willing to go, Your Highness, I'm not willing to stop her. She’s had more experience inside those damned things than all of my Blades put together.”

“And you'd prefer to have her inside the gate and a Blade at my back than the other way around, am I right?”

“I wouldn't have put it that bluntly, but yes. After all that's happened so far, I don't _think_ she'd act against you, but I've got enough to worry about right now.”

* * *

The mortal crept up the corridor and carefully put her head around the entranceway, the sound of her feet no louder than a scamp's breath. The Sigillum Sanguis caught her attention, as well it should, the great stone three time the size of those holding the outposts in place. A whisper of magicka hinted at a minor spell, and Moath took care to move away as he felt the resonance with his animus.

Reassured, or over-confident, the scrawny thing slipped into the hall and up the stairs, careful to remain as far from him as possible. Moath idly wondered if she truly believed he didn't know she was there. Her target was obvious, after all, and the reports from below made it clear there was a mortal on the loose before she ever entered the World Breaker Tower.

She crouched at the foot of the ramp and he wondered if her nerve had failed. He'd seen it before: would-be heroes getting this far and no further, too terrified and disgusted to take those last few steps. The squeamish didn't last long in the Deadlands, but they weren't particularly interesting prey either. He tried turning his back and she moved, quick and careful, her gloved hands flinching away even as she tried to support herself on the slick, yielding meat of the ramp. She reached the top in good time, and Moath decided not to kill her if possible. He was bored and she was potentially amusing.

The timing was easy enough: she was impatient, or desperate, bolting for the Sigil like a mad thing and running straight into his paralysis spell a bare arm’s length from victory. Moath took his time walking up the ramp, letting anticipation and dread sweeten her blood. The displaced momentum had sent her skidding and left her crumpled beside the Sigil. He considered for a moment before flipping her onto her back with his foot. A flick of will dispelled the paralysis, and he dropped his warhammer on her ankle just as she began to scramble away. Given the way she turned pale, he was fairly confident he'd cracked the bone along with her armoured boot, although that tendency for silence would need to be corrected.

He stepped back slightly, just enough to give the mortal a clear view of the stone, and bowed mockingly. “Care to try again, little toy?”

She snarled, and he laughed. This would be fun. She was desperate, he could smell it, no doubt she'd seen the Crawler on her way in and knew it could not be stopped.

“Time is passing, you know. Can you feel it?” he asked. The mortal eased herself to her feet. The left foot tried to crumple under her weight and she swayed for a moment, unbalanced. He swung the warhammer at her gently, playfully, and laughed again as she dodged and fell.

“Your mind rotted in the heat?” she threw back, another trait to break her of. “Or perhaps the Blight already took it?”

Moath narrowed his eyes at the insult, then smiled sharply. “I will let you past soon, mortal. I will even let you take the Great Stone for your very own, but patience, patience, little toy: you must amuse me first. You can go home when there is no hope left, for you or for those waiting for you.”

It was even the truth. If he got the timing right, she'd end up back outside the gate just as the mortal city fell. If the little almost-emperor survived there'd be plenty of guilt to go around; if he didn't, the other mortals would probably reject her entirely. Either way, the next hunt in mortal lands would have the perfect prey just waiting for them. She managed to keep her face blank, but he could see the understanding in her eyes, if not the despair he'd expected. Perhaps if he pushed...

“Time to play, mortal,” Moath crooned. “Already the scamps will be eating your little emperor alive. I wonder how soon he will die.”

The mortal blinked. An expression that was almost daedric crossed her face, and she grinned at him. “Not until I'm there to see it, you over-grown s’wit!”

Moath growled. Breaking her had just become a necessity, and he was done with being kind. He swung his hammer up, aiming for the knee (painful, non-lethal, difficult to heal), and staggered as something heavy and leaking magicka crashed into the side of his head. The mortal managed to roll out of the way as he fell, scrambling out of reach and casting again to pull the Sigil back, wrapping her arms around her prize as the Sigillum Sanguis began to pulsate and expand behind them. Without the keystone, the order Dagon had imposed on this shard was lost, the tower, the land, _the Crawler_ all disintegrating back into the untamed chaos of Oblivion.

The last thing Moath heard as his animus was cast into the Darkness was the mortal's victorious laughter.

* * *

“So, how are we going to get her out from under that thing?”

“Just... grab Captain Burd and get a team together. Maybe we can lift it?”


	7. Bloody But Unbowed

Sent from Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil,  
By the hand of Cervas Carvaren  
On the 2nd day of Rain’s Hand, 3E 429  
For the eyes of his sister Ilunabi Ashamanu  
To be held at the Ebonheart Mission, Morrowind, until collected

> My dear Iya,
> 
> They say no news is good news, and yet I am glad to hear from you even with tales of confusion and strife. You were wise to have left Mournhold: it may be under the care of our bright lady, but ash storms are not the worst I have heard of the city and I fear Her attention is occupied elsewhere. Political change often leads to upheaval, and I know how you hate politics.
> 
> Unfortunately, Cyrodiil would be no safer for you, sweet sister. The scars of the Simulacrum remain, and the Septim line is weakened by rumours of bastardy and illusions. Lies and slander, I'm sure—can no one _count_? —but perception is stronger than truth and the Emperor is old for a human. There will be trouble when he passes.
> 
> There is no better word of our own father, the records in Cheydinhal were inconclusive. Duty sees fit to send me hence to Tear although I would not offer you false hope. I suspect, however, you will be pleased to hear that both moon sugar and skooma are hard to come by in Cyrodiil, with a corresponding improvement in my behaviour. Whether I can keep out of trouble once in Morrowind again, I do not know, but Iya, I swear to try.
> 
> I would ask a similar promise of you, my sister, while this trail takes me far from home. The Ascadian Isles might be safest for you, either in Vivec’s own city or under the Empire’s shield in Ebonheart. Oddly enough, there are rumours that the Totem of Tiber Septim has been found in Akavir. I doubt the truth of this, but you may yet see an expedition leaving from the docks of Ebonheart. A journey of legends, no?
> 
> But I ramble on, making a meal out of a mouthful, and you no doubt have work to do. Write to me when you can, and I will write to you, and so the miles between us are naught but dust. Azura’s blessing on you, Iya.
> 
> Your loving brother,  
>  Cess

* * *

**Ebonheart, Vvardenfell, Morrowind  
13th day of Rain’s Hand (Day of the Dead), 3E 429**

The sky above was cloudy and grey, as dull as the stones of the Imperial docks. In years past, there would have been a red tinge to the air on days like this: the mark of the blight that showed even past the Ghostfence and at such a distance from the Mountain. Now the Ghostfence was gone, no longer needed, and on a cloudy day Ebonheart was as drab as an old guarskin. It was enough to make any self-respecting adventurer run screaming into the kagouti-infested wild.

Ilunabi remained perched on the cabin roof where she been very firmly directed, fidgeting with a roll of parchment and watching the organised chaos of the Ebonheart docks. Sacks, barrels, and crates were redirected under the quartermaster’s watchful eye, and sailors hurried back and forth in the obscure rituals of a ship that must leave on the next tide.

Sitting out in the open like this made her back itch but the disguise seemed to be working, such as it was. Being so scrawny was a pain, but clubbing her hair back and wearing a robe big enough ‘to grow into’ seemed to convince people that she was just another young apprentice with the Mage’s Guild. Fewer attempted assassinations were a good thing.

She drummed her heels against the cabin wall, and forced herself stop before the captain came out again. Murder attempts were a pain, figuratively and otherwise, but at least she was allowed to _move_. A bustle of scholars caught her eye on the dockside and Ilunabi grinned sharply. Scholars needed writing tools, no one would look twice at a Guild apprentice doing their homework, and figuring out how to reply to Caius’s letter appropriately could be just the distraction she needed.

* * *

Sent from Ebonheart, Morrowind,  
By the hand of Indrele Cosades  
On the 13th day of Rain’s Hand, 3E 429  
For the eyes of her brother Caius Cosades  
To be held at the Imperial Embassy in Tear, Morrowind, until collected

> Dearest Cess,
> 
> As always you are annoyingly correct, as elder brothers tend to be. I write this on the docks of Ebonheart, watching as the expedition you mentioned shakes itself into some form of order. Much of the funding is said to come from Divayth Fyr, but the other lords of House Telvanni and the local Mages Guild are also involving themselves. It will be a journey of legends indeed, but I have other concerns.
> 
> I encountered an Ashlander youth seeking the Nerevarine with no kind intentions, although she might have found it easier had she been able to recognise her quarry on sight. It appears that not all of her people appreciate the defeat of of Dagoth Ur, or at least they believe that battle should have also brought down the Tribunal so their prophecies might be fulfilled. I am no Dissident to say one way or the other, so I merely passed on some of the stranger rumours I have heard regarding the seclusion of Almsivi in an attempt to convince the poor girl to abandon her quest. Unfortunately, I suspect her attention was simply diverted, since I last saw her on a boat to the Imperial City. At least it’s unlikely for one mad Ashlander to noticeably affect the chaos you described?
> 
> As for our father, be careful in Tear. Do not let duty lead you into harm, for I hold your life more valuable than any hope you might uncover. If you must drown your sorrows, my idiot brother, let it be in flin or greef rather than those Khajiiti drugs. When, not if, we meet again, I wish to see you in full health. This is not a request, Cess.
> 
> Permanent lodgings in Ebonheart are too rich for my purse (and Vivec is simply not possible), but I will leave word with the innkeeper at the Six Fishes so you may able to find me, whether I have gone to Vivec, Dagon Fel, or even far-off Akavir. Write to me here and Sera Agning will hold your letters for me to collect when I can.
> 
> May Azura keep you from harm, since I know you can’t manage that yourself.
> 
> Your loving sister,  
>  Iya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that's Ilunabi from the Kettle series, amnesia and all. The timeline divergence doesn't really kick in until after Hainab goes to the Imperial City.
> 
> Caius had been taking advantage of being assigned to Cyrodiil to poke around the orphanage in Cheydinhal where she grew up, but didn't find out anything new and important. They're being careful with names and phrasing because the Nerevarine being in contact with a Blades agent is political dynamite and she's in enough trouble already.
> 
> Somewhere I picked up the concept of using initials as nicknames (cf. Vehk, Ayem, Seht), not sure if that was from canon, a mod, or a fic, sorry.


	8. Master of My Fate

Written at the Breath-Of-Kyne Inn and sent from the Imperial City, Cyrodiil  
By the hand of J.  
15th Morning Star, 4e 1  
For the eyes of C.C.  
To be held at the Timsa-Come-Inn in Tear, Morrowind, until collected

> C,
> 
> I don't know what rumours have reached you, so I'll lay it out straight. Uncle Sly finally karked it, but he took his boys with him. Yes, even that brat he dragged up out of nowhere.
> 
> I'm being too harsh. The brat did his best, not his fault he was dealt a poor hand. I'm still trying to figure out what was up with that Dunmer girl hanging around him. She seemed helpful enough then, but the more I dig now the weirder it gets. You're the Morrowind expert, didn't House Dagoth get squelched? In any case, the last I heard she was headed for Bravil, maybe she'll get scooped up by that ridiculous rock.
> 
> Yes, there is a rock floating in the bay just off Bravil. Yes, anyone who goes there comes back some shade of bonkers. Yes, it is _exactly_ what it sounds like.
> 
> Anyway, Ophelia and I—you remember Ophelia, right? Helped me pick up the pieces after the Interregnum? —well, we inherited Sly’s mess, for lack of any better option. I think his creditors are determined to tear everything apart, and there's not much we can do to stop them. Ophelia's the optimist, thinks they mean well. Hah!
> 
> You know your own business, but the sooner you can get all the loose ends tied up the better. I need you back here, there’s work to do.
> 
> Regards,  
> J
> 
> Post script: Jen’s pregnant. Ask no questions, tell no lies, and all that. I'll do my best, but odds are there'll be nothing left for our little cousin by the time he grows up. Damn creditors.

* * *

**Tear, Morrowind  
27th day of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 1**

The little room was cramped, made even smaller by the blankets someone had nailed to the walls to muffle any sounds in or out. The bed filled most of the floor, and Caius twitched one foot constantly rather than attempt to pace as he sorted through his mail.

One eyebrow ticked up at the date on a particularly battered envelope. The seal had been carefully detached and replaced at least once, and judging by the creases someone else had been trying to peek at the contents without touching the seal as well. The undyed wax broke easily and Caius brushed the crumbs off his quilt.

He read through Jauffre's message once, frowned, and rolled over to pull a slim metal case out from under his mattress. The letter he extracted from the case was written on paper rather then parchment and splitting at the folds.

Caius read through both letters again and slumped back, letting his head thump against the padded wall.

“Well,” he said. “Shit.”

* * *

Tear, Morrowind  
C.C.  
27 Suns Dusk 4/1  
For the eyes of J.  
Weynon Priory, Chorrol, Cyrodiil,  
URGENT

> Your letter badly delayed. See enclosed. House Dagoth and Ashlanders both actively hostile to imperials and the empire. Warning signs: disturbing dreams, also small red/black statues (smash them if found). DU supposed to be dead, but take no chances.
> 
> I'll be home by end of year.
> 
> C.
> 
> P.S. No word from Iya since enclosed
> 
> P.P.S. Did D girl know about Jena?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translating Jauffre's coded references:  
> * Written at the Breath-Of-Kyne Inn = Cloud-Ruler Temple, Blades business.  
> * C.C. = Caius Cosades. He tends to keep his initials when using false names, makes it easier to collect his mail.  
> * Uncle Sly and his boys = Emperor Uriel Septim VII and his sons.  
> * The brat = Martin.  
> * The Dunmer girl = yes, that's Hainab. It's a lot easier to dig up info on someone when there's no daedra running around killing your messengers.  
> * The floating rock = Sheogorath's portal to the Shivering Isles.  
> * Ophelia = High Chancellor Ocato, helped the Emperor after the Interregnum, tried to keep the Empire together after the Oblivion Crisis.  
> * Creditors = the rest of the Elder Council, courtiers, politicians, etc.  
> * Jen = Jena, a Blade and the lover of Martin Septim. See _The Loon in the Moon_.


End file.
